The Flower's Last Gift
by skywolf666
Summary: They had fled the only home they'd ever known in the midst of chaos, and there was no time to mourn amidst the fire, the storm, and the chill of loss. Now, settled in an inn far from the reaches of the church, Jeralt finally allowed himself to take pause and evaluate what he had done, and what they all now were. Broken, battered... but not yet defeated.


The thunder rolled, shaking the small inn's room like an earthquake, but there was still silence despite the uproar of the weather in the late night. How long had it been storming? The ragged-looking mercenary was not entirely sure. It felt as if the heavens themselves were still in mourning, sharing his mixture of rage and sadness, and expressing it in a roar that he had not allowed himself to give way to. No, there was no way he could feasibly vent his own emotions. There had been no time. Not between her death, the birth, and the escape... He had been forced to do so much in so little time, and mourning had not been a priority.

Now, however... Jeralt sat on the edge of his still-made bed, one hand resting on the diary he had finished writing in for the night as he stared at the closed door that hid his daughter behind it. She was not crying, despite the storm. Though it unnerved him, though he still did not quite understand it, he was quickly coming to accept her peculiarities as reality. There was little he could do about it. About the strangeness that Rhea had created in his newborn daughter. She did not cry. She did not laugh. She had no heartbeat. In almost all forms, she could barely qualify as human... but it did not matter. She was his daughter. The last gift his wife had been able to give him... and he would sooner die for her than abandon her for her unnaturalness.

The thought however brought a grimace to his bearded face as he understood again that his feelings were not the only ones he had to consider. Behind that door was not only his daughter, but his son, and he was well aware that his boy did not view his new sister the same way his father did. Yet, how could he fault him? His mother dead at the tender age of six, fleeing the only home he had ever known at Garreg Mach with little explanation in the middle of complete chaos, and now living in the wind, on the run, with a newborn baby he only looked at with contempt.

"Ah, kid..." Jeralt ran a hand over his face at the idea of his son, watching over the bassinet where his sister slept, and likely hating every last moment of it. Again, he couldn't blame him. He knew full well how much his son loved his mother. It hadn't been at his encouragement that the boy had taken up watch over his mother upon discovering her pregnancy. He had spent every waking moment beside her, keeping vigil despite her laughing attempts to remind him not to smother her, and it had been with soldier-like precision that he took up his duties as a future elder brother.

Had it really only been less than a few weeks ago that he had been sitting beside her, espousing his beliefs that their family needed another son to take care of their fragile, beautiful flower? Hearing her laughter, seeing the way her dark, navy curls shook with each peal of giggles that went through her at his show of machismo? The way her beautiful, brilliant cerulean eyes twinkled with mischief when she leaned over to whisper in her son's ear that maybe a little girl would finally get her "men" to settle down and behave like proper gentlemen? It felt like it had been years ago.

Now there was no more laughter. Only tension. Only grief. Distrust and fear and that all-consuming feeling of complete and utter failure. And that look in his son's eyes. That horribly empty look that was somehow paired with rage, a rage so all-consuming that it made Jeralt's stomach clench at the sight of it. How was it that a six-year-old boy was capable of showing off such anger? Perhaps it was because of his age, his pureness, that allowed his emotions to show so strongly. He was still young. He did not understand nuance, no matter how wise he seemed despite his years. He was a child at heart, a child robbed of his mother, and it only made sense that he would blame what he could for the loss he felt.

_"Why?"_

_It was a question Jeralt had been asking himself ever since he had heard the news, and yet it was not one that could be answered. So he did not speak it aloud, and instead turned his grief and anger inwards. There was little use in asking why. Perhaps even less in knowing the reason, if there was even one. He no longer believed in the goddess. He doubted that he ever truly had. She had been his goddess, and now she was gone... and blaming fate did not give him comfort._

_But his son was different. His son wanted answers. Needed answers. How else could he put his emotions into place in order to grieve? How else could he hope to find a path to walk without being able to understand? His youth worked against him, tortured him, and Jeralt was at a loss as he faced those cerulean eyes that were so much like his mother's as they burned holes in him and demanded that his father provide. He had to. He was his father. All he had left of the world. _

_"Why? Why her, and... not... _her,_ instead?" The words were obviously a struggle to speak, and Jeralt was not entirely sure if he was impressed, or saddened, at the way his son refused to name his sister. Refused to almost acknowledge her as human. But that wasn't the boy's fault. How could he blame him? His son saw just as clearly as his father how strange their new addition to the family was. Her lack of emotion, her almost negligible response to stimuli of any sort, the lack of a heartbeat... No, he didn't blame his son for seeing her as less than human. It was not a sin. "Why did she have to die instead, Father?"_

_"I don't have those answers, Warin." The truth was painful to speak, but he owed his son his honesty as he knelt down to see him at eye-level. A sign of respect, a sign of treating him as an equal, and Jeralt reached to place his hands on his son's tiny, fragile shoulders to ensure that he understood his seriousness. For his credit, Warin simply stared back at him with that same, stoic look on his face that he had worn ever since he had heard of his mother's death. "I don't know why it was her. But I do know that Raine is now our last gift that your mother gave us... and we must protect her. She's the last link we have to your mother. And we have to do right by her, as your mother did by us, and by everyone else. Do you understand?"_

_"No."_

_Warin's response was quiet and melancholy, and it made Jeralt's throat tighten as his stomach recoiled like he had been struck. He felt so powerless. So helpless. He had never been emotive, almost as a rule. Feelings, attachments, those sort of things were liable to get a mercenary killed on the battlefield... He had never been in touch with his heart, if only to keep himself alive long enough to earn his next paycheck so he could move on to the next mission ahead. That had changed with his service to the archbishop... when he had met _her_. Emotions became a thing to treasure. To enjoy. But it did not give him any more insight on how to manage them, or express them fully. He was only thankful that she understood, that she saw his actions as his language of love, but that did him no good when it came to his boy._

_"I won't ask you then, to try and understand. You're still young, kid... and it still hurts. I know that. I feel it, too. So it's okay. Hate her if you want. Blame her if you want. Just... Remember that your mother would never want her to come to harm. She loved her just as much as she loved you. You know that. One day... You'll be able to move past it. One day, you can call her family and be happy again. But until that day, take as much time as you need to feel how you feel. I won't rush you."_

The words had felt hallow then, and they still felt hallow now, more than a fortnight later. He was not sure what to think, watching Warin watching Raine with those empty eyes that they shared in colour, and yet not in emotion. His son was more than capable of laughter and smiles and petty rages, yet all of that had seemed to die with his mother. Replaced only with anger, anger and a faint sense of helplessness. Or perhaps fatalism. He seemed to accept everything without argument, without feeling, as if he was content to be carried along by the whims of his father because there was no use fighting any longer.

It made him uneasy, and that unease prompted movement despite his better judgement. He trusted his son. There was no question in that. Even if he hated his sister, and Jeralt didn't doubt that he did, he knew that his boy was not capable of murder. He was strong, a soldier-in-training and naturally gifted, but he was still his mother's son. He would never harm another in cold blood. And most certainly he would never harm a defenceless infant. Yet that cold anger, the blame and baleful expressions... It shook him all the same.

He crossed the room in an easy stride, but was careful to mask his footfall as if he was in enemy territory and approaching their lines from behind. Instinct took over despite better judgement, and he was as silent as a ghost as he took hold of the doorknob and turned it slowly to open the door. He pulled just as slowly, not wanting to disturb the children if they were sleeping, or... He forced himself to stop, closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath as his chest tightened with an instinctive pulse of panic.

'No. Stop thinking. Act.'

The door slid open, and for a heart-stopping moment, Jeralt was not sure what it was that he was seeing. The room was awash in a soft glow from candlelight at the bedside table, but the cot was empty. The sheets were thrown aside as if in haste, and the blinds tightly closed to keep the lightning from invading the room and disturbing its occupants. The bassinet that the innkeeper had provided for him stood in the middle of the room, rocking gently on its rounded stirrups for the babe's comfort. And standing beside it, with one hand on the edge and the other inside and out of view was his son. He was staring down at the baby, his face hidden by his unruly navy hair, and his body was still as if he was made of stone.

Jeralt moved without thinking, overwhelmed by both instinct and a surge of panic that there was no hope of controlling. Strange or not, _human_ or not, that infant was the last gift his wife had been able to give him, and his body was merely a means to an end in protecting her. Even if it meant from his own son. That body only made it three steps before stopping as his view became clearer, and as suddenly as the panic had overtaken him, he was overcome with a mixture of shame and shock.

Warin was indeed standing over his baby sister, but his expression was not one that indicated any danger. Rather, he looked surprised, and not by his father's sudden entrance. The hand that was inside the bassinet was being held, with five tiny, chubby fingers wrapped around one of his own to hold him in place. The baby was awake and staring, silent and expressionless as she always was, but her gaze was focussed on her elder brother with an eerie sort of awareness. Yet Warin did not seem perturbed. He returned her stare, rocking the cradle absently as he allowed his sister to hold his hand.

His gaze was soft, almost gentle, and it made his face youthful again after so many days of stress and misery. As if he was no longer an old man in a child's body. And Jeralt wasn't sure if he felt more ashamed or awed now that he watched Warin turn away from the cradle to look at him and his sudden intrusion. He did not move his hand, proving that he did not care if his show of affection, if that was what it was, was being seen. Instead he simply blinked, stilling the rocking as he asked in a quiet, almost careful voice so not to disturb his infant sibling, "Father? What is it?"

Jeralt swallowed his emotions before they gave an answer he could not take back, and he shook his head before approaching his children with a calm he wasn't entirely sure he actually felt. Warin stayed where he was, allowing Raine to continue to hold his hand, and Jeralt swallowed down another knot that had abruptly manifested itself in his throat. He wasn't sure what he felt or how to give word to it, and instead he merely nodded to the scene before him as he asked in a gruffer voice than he wished to use, "What's going on here?"

"She got tangled in the blankets. I fixed them. Then she... grabbed my hand." Warin's explanation was plain and factual, brisk and to the point as he always was, and he moved his arm subtly as if to prove the point and give his evidence to his story. He glanced back down at the staring infant, and his expression changed slightly into a frown of confusion. His brow furrowed, and he spoke thoughtfully, almost regretfully, "Any other baby would cry if they were tangled up or uncomfortable, right? But she can't. What if she was hungry? Or hurting? She wouldn't cry then, either, right?"

"Probably not." Jeralt hated his answer, but enough time of watching had proven his son's own assumptions completely correct. The child did not make a sound, or show a single emotion despite her own instinctual needs. It did not matter what it was, hunger, pain, or discomfort, she would not, or perhaps _could not_, make her needs known to them. He had to guess at all times, wonder every moment, if something was wrong and what it was that he'd have to do in order to fix it. It was the strangest thing, the most problematic thing, and it haunted his every waking moment. Only attentiveness would keep her alive if she would not, or could not, heed to instinct and cry as any other baby would when their needs were not met.

"She could get hurt so easily."

Jeralt felt his heart ache at the wonder and pain in Warin's voice as he stared down at the child below him. The hand gripping his finger was weak, but still somehow completely inescapable, and it made his eldest's expression turn into worse of a frown. He reached with his free hand, adjusting the small blanket his mother had knitted for her over her tiny body, and he continued quietly as he felt his father's gaze on him like a weight, "That means she needs to be protected, right, Father? Because she can't tell us what she needs. When she's older, she can. When she can talk. But... That's awhile from now. She's... still too small. Fragile."

"A fragile little flower." Jeralt replied with a small, saddened smile as he remembered how often he had said such things about his wife. Her kindness, her beauty, her love had made her so much like the flowers she so adored, and there was no mistaking the fact that she was fragile. A nun, raised in isolation and knowing no hardship, yet still full of cheer and warmth and an unending kindness that he could not help but bask in after so much time alone. Now her child took after her in the worst of ways, beyond his understanding, but it did not make her any less worthy of his love. "She needs us to protect her, Warin. To keep her safe, happy, and content. She can't tell us what she needs. What she wants... So we'll have to watch, and always be ready. Do you want to do that, Warin? Do you want to be her protector?"

"Mother told me... that was the job of a big brother." Warin's answer came slowly, and his frown deepened as he watched those tiny fingers loosen and then tighten again on his index finger. She squeezed, with all the strength of a butterfly's breath behind it, and he felt something inside of his chest move. That choking ball of white-hot something was shifting inside of him. It would not move or fade, it was too deeply rooted within him for that, but its focus was no longer so keenly on his sister. How could it be? When she looked at him with such clear eyes that were exactly as his mother's had been? When he knew she needed him to survive, lest she be buried in the ground just as mother now was? "To protect my little sibling. To protect Raine."

"It is. But you're not doing it alone. It's _our _job." Jeralt corrected him quickly but gently, understanding as he watched a myriad of emotions flicker rapidly through his son's eyes. Gods he was so young, and yet he grappled so valiantly against things he had no right to know of at such an age. It cut through him like the sharpest blade, and he carefully pulled his son by his shoulder and into his chest so not to dislodge Raine's grip on his finger. He held him close with one arm, hating the fact that he had to hold still to stop himself from trembling, but there was no hiding the tremor in his voice as he continued, "We'll protect her, Warin. You and me. From everything that comes from here on out. As a family."

Warin didn't reply, but the slight pressure against his stomach was enough of an answer as Jeralt held his son close. He turned his face closer, nuzzling him for comfort and hiding his expression, but Jeralt knew better than to push him. He was like his mother, so full of those intense emotions that seemed boundless, but he was also far too much like him. Desiring to push it all down and under a mask, as if it made him less of a man, and already he wondered if he was failing his son as a father.

Wetness tinged his tunic, and Jeralt closed his eyes tightly as he felt a similar stinging in his own eyes in answer. He slowly dropped to his knees on the floor, carefully pulling his son free of Raine's grasp so he could turn his son about to wrap him up in his arms. Warin's small arms wrapped themselves as best as they could around his father's waist, and Jeralt gritted his teeth audibly as he fought back the pain and the grief. He buried his face in his son's hair, remembering the last time he has done so to his wife, and he spoke shakily as he gripped him close, "It'll be okay, kiddo. I promise you that it'll be okay. We'll go far away from here, and we'll always be together. You, me, and your sister."

"I'm not a good brother. But I'll be one. I'll be one." Warin's voice was choked, muffled as he pressed his face into his father's tunic, but Jeralt heard the words loudly and clearly. Too loudly, perhaps. It made him want to hug him harder, to quiet him, but he knew better. His son was finding his voice, finding a way to express everything he had been keeping pent up inside as some part of him made peace with his sister and his mother's passing. His fingers clutched at his father, desperately gripping for the only solid tether he had as the storm raged on both outside and in, and Warin vainly tried to hide his sobs as he continued on forcefully, "I'll be a good brother. I'll protect her. I'll make sure she's okay. I'll be good from now on, I promise... I _promise_...!"

Jeralt's jaw clenched tighter, grinding his teeth as he held his sobbing little boy close to his chest and wondered at his boy's maturity, and how broken he truly was. He wasn't capable of hiding his emotions for long, but his efforts had been valiant. And now he was letting the world know his grief as he mixed it with guilt for hating his sister. He didn't expect it but he wasn't about to complain, but he still wished that it didn't need to happen at all.

What was he doing? Fleeing the monastery, fleeing the knights, with two defenceless children in tow? His mistrust of Rhea refused to allow him to stay, his wife's death was still an open wound, but his children were not capable of protecting themselves... and he had been incapable of protecting his wife. Jeralt pressed his forehead to his son's hair, inhaling deeply in a vain effort to steady the trembling in his body. He was a failure. He was incapable of protecting them alone. The Blade Breaker himself was broken.

Jeralt shoved it all aside with a force he did not know he still had left him. He drew away slightly from his son, pulling back just enough so he could look him in the eye again. He brushed a careful hand over his reddened cheeks, drying the tears on the back of his gloves, and his words came slowly but with a strength he knew was false, "It's going to be okay, kid. We're together. You, me, and her. A family. And family will always protect family. I'll be honest... It'll be tough. I can't promise you it'll be easy. We're going to be alone, and things will be much different from what we've been used to... but we'll get through it if we work together. Do you understand? Can you do that?"

"Yes, Father... I can do that."

**AN:**

**I RETURN! And of course I return with Three Houses shit... and again, before anyone starts, I know I'm again doing the "two siblings for the inclusion of both genders" thing. At least this time I didn't make them twins! Mind, I did have to tweak things a tad in the timeline, so that Jeralt's wife is not as young as she was when she passed (and that she had a successful first childbirth), but otherwise, things are going to go as the game dictates whenever I write from now on. Warin's inclusion is _not_ as another Byleth. For all intents and purposes, he is an OC that is going to simply look like a male Byleth in physical features for the sake of identifying marks.**

**For disclosure, however, Warin will not be a professor. He is not taking over any house, whereas Raine will function as the main character and professor that we all know and love. Warin will get fleshed out alongside Raine, of course, but he won't be bonding much with the students. His focus will be on family, as well as interactions with the Knights of Seiros, and as an "observer" towards Raine's journey. Mind, I don't intend to bench him. I want him to be as important to the narrative as Raine is, just in a different function. Whether or not that succeeds, well, that's up to you guys to decide!**

**As for anything else... Well, that's to be determined as I continue to write. I have played through all four storylines, and have a fairly good grasp of canon (and fanon theories), so I feel rather confident about getting most things factually correct as I go through my stories. The question really is if the writing bug stays with me, and I am hoping it does. Again, I did have to start from the beginning, a "Byleth" being a literal blank slate is something I want to tweak and toy with over my time of writing "my" version. As for pairings and storylines that I'll be focussing on... That's a surprise!**

**Thanks for waiting for me to come back, and I'm very sorry about my long absence. I'm also sorry if this story is not what you hoped for, so please, leave me a review about what you'd like to see if this was not it. I'm always open to feedback (it is my lifeblood, after all!) and I'd love to know what you guys want to see and want me to write! Have a good one, and we'll hopefully see you soon!**

**Mood: Entertained.**

**Listening To: "I Lived" - One Republic**

**~ Sky**


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